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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29504232">Returning</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlockOfPigeons/pseuds/FlockOfPigeons'>FlockOfPigeons</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Blaseball (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Everyone’s scared about season twelve, Grief/Mourning</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 01:53:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,498</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29504232</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlockOfPigeons/pseuds/FlockOfPigeons</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of 100 word mini fics in which the Moist Talkers prepare (or don’t) for the return of Blaseball and reflect on seasons past</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Canada Moist Talkers Fanfiction</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Returning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>All good things come to an end.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The adage is old, overused, but rings true nevertheless. Eugenia Garbage lays in Ziwa's bed, in Ziwa's apartment. She spends more time here than at the stadium, now, but the space isn't hers. Always so scared of sullying it, destroying something fragile. She has watched so much break over eleven seasons.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her partner curls tighter beside her, a small whimper escaping drawn lips. Nightmares plague them all, now, with the return creeping ever closer. Eugenia wraps arms around their restless form. The nights are hard, but who knows how many they have left?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It has taken Ziwa so long to learn not to flinch away from contact. It's not fear for herself, but fear for those who come close. She knows the venom in her veins so well, fears it enough to almost sense it when Eugenia enters the locker room.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You barely slept." Eugenia's voice is concerned as she reaches out and puts a hand on their shoulder.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ziwa's laugh is bitter. "How could I? There's so much to do." They won't admit that fear plagues them. They know Eugenia wants them to. But they can't. So they count team uniforms instead.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cedric's laugh breaks sharply midsentence.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He's kept the team photo taped in his locker since the swap. The Garages at the end of season six. Not seven. No one was in a picture taking mood after seven. It kept him grounded for a long time, seeing those faces. But now he feels himself shudder. He knows Alston is saying something on the other end of the phone clutched white-knuckle to his ear. But he can't process it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He remembers how happy they were mere days after that. He remembers everything that went wrong.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It's all starting again, and he's afraid.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Commissioner Vapor can't smile, but supposing he could, he would be now. His follower count is climbing, and he couldn't be happier. The livestream blinks to life, and he flashes a peace sign at the camera.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"What's up, Vaporheads!" He crows. "Who's ready for season twelve?" The chat flies by faster than he's ever seen before. He can barely keep up. Until his eyes latch onto one phrase.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Show us York."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"York..." Vapor shuffles. "He doesn't wanna..." He slumps, realization dawning. "What the fuck am I doing?" he asks quietly, turns the feed off.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The audience wants endings, not beginnings.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jésus stares at the footage, loop upon loop. Watches himself (not himself) holding a bat like a microphone in his hands (not his hands). Making grandiose introductions to crowds who, at the time, barely knew who they were. Jésus still doesn't fully know who that person was, and likely never will.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The ghost hisses in their ear, accompanied by the smell of ash. "Don't get comfortable. This is just one stop along the road." He pulls his knees up to his chest, bites his lip. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You don't know that, Tyler." He says.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I do. And I'm all you've really got."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>McBlase hunches over her desk, Beans chirping at her, irritated. She sighs and looks at the cat, who stretches up to place its face at eye level with hers. “I know,” she says. “I know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She has checked and rechecked the paperwork gods know how many times now. Sheet after sheet of text. Lists of loved ones, belongings. Lives rendered down to dollar amounts and the occasional heirloom. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wills. Death given shape in the form of letters and numbers. Her friends, leaving instructions in hopes that she can carry them out. She signs her name, and puts down the pen.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Running away is, Alston would argue, what he does best. He stares now at the face of an enemy he can’t run from. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>*CRACK*</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Another connection, ball against wood as he practices his swing in the batting cage. If he gets better, maybe he can strike this enemy down instead of running from it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>*CRACK*</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Who is the enemy, anyways? He doesn’t know. None of them do. Maybe the season will start, and they’ll all be proven paranoid fools. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>*CRACK*</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hopes so. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>*CRACK*</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He knows he’s probably wrong. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>*CRACK*</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So he keeps on swinging. It’s all he can do.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lachlan spends a lot of time making apologies. Not where anyone can hear it. Not anymore. Vela gave him hell for that, once. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t kill them, Lachlan. Stop opening my old wounds to try to heal yours.” Eyes so old for a face so young, the one constant of an ever changing body. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kennedy Alstott. Antonio Wallace. Who else? Who next? He had been born in the fire, and had Tony not taken his place, he would have died in it too. And now he </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>home, and Wallace would never </span>
  <em>
    <span>go</span>
  </em>
  <span> home. It’s not fair. Blaseball never is.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fish Summer has tasted fire. They think of it as their muscles strain against the weights they lift at three AM (they’re not sleeping, they never do). The way it roared into them, the way that they were ready to die so no one else did. The way it crackled in their veins, exploded out of them as they swung their bat. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was almost intoxicating. Fish isn’t sure whether it was the sensation of it or the fact that they were left standing at the end.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fish grins. They’ll never admit it, but they want to taste fire again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>York knows that his mom would be livid if she could see him now, picking at scaly, woody scabs. But she can’t, and he’s so fucking scared, and he can’t help it. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Besides, no matter how often he pulls them away to expose the raw, bloody flesh underneath, they just keep coming back. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>How far would he have gone if not for the Hall Stars? How many would have died? How many would’ve been his fault?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“It’s not your fault. You didn’t know what you were doing.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But he did. He didn’t have a choice, but he remembers every minute.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Everyone wants to be different, to stand out. Not everyone does. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>PolkaDot is almost jealous of the ones who don’t. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maxed out, stolen, shelled, sacrificed. They’re not bitter about any of it, not really. But it weighs on them. They know their fate lies in the Hall, and they know that with every season that passes, the chance that they don’t properly get to say goodbye to the team that they’ve called family for eight seasons grows. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>How long will it be? They’ve had a target on their back for so long. They’ve been lucky to make it this far.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Greer’s fist meets the wall with a crunch and a shower of plaster. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span><em>“Fuck!”</em> Yelling, not from pain, not even from anger, really. Just to feel the word tear at her throat. How did she get so complacent? How did she, of all people, get attached?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It startled her the first time she found herself laughing with the team rather than at them. When did she let them bridge that gap? When did she start seeing them as... friends?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s getting soft. She’s going to get hurt. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” she says again, and is startled to hear it as a sob.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The birds are never far away, now. Beady black eyes staring down from rooftops, low croaks sounding from darkly feathered throats. Their numbers wax and wane but never fade completely. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And when Jenkins is angry? They swarm. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They fill the air above the stadium now as Jenkins stares defiantly at the sky, writhing black shapes blotting out a pastel sunset. It might have been beautiful, had Good cared much for aesthetics. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Instead they silently curse a god that they know to be dead. But anger doesn’t die, loss doesn’t wither. They have felt and seen enough of both to know.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Beasley whines as Workman puts on his jacket. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, Beas,” they say. “You can’t come for this one.” Their smile is gentle, so full of goodness. Beasley’s stubby tail wags at the sight of it. They are Beasley’s person, his entire world. They’re back now, back after so long, and Beasley would follow them to the ends of the earth to make sure they didn’t go away again. Beasley missed them so much.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Workman smells different now. The smell of a place Beasley doesn’t know. What Beasley does know is that he’d follow Workman back there in a heartbeat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a hole in the sky. Mooney Doctor stares blankly into it, wine glass in hand, swaying slightly. The Talkers have never seen her like this, and gods help her - actually, on second thought, fuck gods, they’ve only ever broken the things she has carefully built - they never will. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She is crying, tears casting salty tracks down pale cheeks. She hasn’t seen the sun since the siesta started. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Give her back,” she begs the sky, then howls, <em>“give her BACK!” </em>The fine-stemmed glass smashes onto the ground, all the tiny shards of glass reflecting the same moonless sky.</span>
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